


Down from the High (Albatross)

by Kymopoleia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Sadstuck, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:34:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kymopoleia/pseuds/Kymopoleia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow the lives of renowned rappers Gamzee Makara and Dave Strider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down from the High (Albatross)

**Author's Note:**

> > How could I be so down at a time like this, when I'm high like this
>>
>>> When the billboard charts when your major tours overseas when I fly like this
>>>
>>>> I've be thinking about the people that need me
>>>>
>>>>> They needy and all of the pain that I might miss

You are supposed to be writing lyrics for a new song, because that's what you normally do when you're high off your ass. You do some of your best works then, with the bitter smelling clouds hanging around your face, clinging to your hair and burning your eyes. Your manager rarely bothers you when you're like this, because he's scheduling things for you. You appreciate his effort, you really do. It takes a lot to get shows set up, and tours, it takes time and money. You pay him a lot of money for his troubles.

You stare at the blank pad of paper before you, and reach for the pencil. Fuck, this used to be a lot more fun. Used to be easier. You had a lot more fun in the game when you had a partner. Someone who made the writer's block go away with some freestyle, and someone to take a hit off your shit so you didn't smoke too much. Someone who had too much alcohol, so you'd take sips so he wouldn't get too drunk.

The only words flying through your brain are sad ones, ones that he said. Ones that were in songs, and ones that weren't. Ones that make your heart ache.

You set the pencil down in favor of your dope. Your eyes sting from tears now, rather than just the smoke filling the room.

Fuck, you don't want to think about him.

You don't want to cry.

You don't want to look in the mirror every morning.

You don't even want to think about hospitals, let alone go near one.

You don't want to do that european tour coming up. You're going to need to brush up on your french for it, since it's going to start in northern ireland, then go through the UK until it hits the bottom. Then you're going to cross the english channel to northern france, go through there, and end the tour, after a brief excursion in portugal, in southern spain. Eridan also suggested you learn a bit of spanish and portuguese, but you don't think you can be bothered to do it.

Two languages is hard enough, you remind him.

But for now you just set the weed down, and run a hand over your face, smearing the paint. Why are you wearing it right now, anyways?

Oh yeah, it had seemed like a good idea when you were still enjoying the high.

Now you suppose there isn't really a high to enjoy. Instead you're just left jittery, with smoke filling the room. You're glad you don't do this in the house, because if you did there would be even more suspicion about you.

Authority figures didn't quite approve of your wild black hair, your often dilated or puffy eyes, or the mask of paint you don to keep your identity under wraps. Somehow it helps to keep the media off of your ass. All you have to do is get into a bathroom, scrub the paint off, and tie your hair back into a ponytail. There are more rumors about you out there than there are interviews, as is expected. Your subject material is the same as any other modern day rapper.

The people you are attracted to are the subject, often enough. You are said to be a figurehead for society, since you seem to be one of the first uncloseted rappers. It gives you a small sense of pride to know that you are a model for others, even though you still do some really whack shit. Whatever, it's not like you actually expect others to use you as a figurehead for anything else. What pisses you off though, is when the fuckers in the media don't classify you the right way. Being called homosexual isn't an insult, but it isn't you. Bisexual doesn't quite cover it either. You identify as pansexual, and it bothers you when they say anything else. If you're attracted to someone, you couldn't give two fucks about what's in their pants. You have had plenty of surprises throughout your love life, and it honestly didn't take you long to just take it and roll with it. Penis, Vag, anything inbetween. As long as you care about them, they care about you, and it's consensual, you're cool with it.

Another subject of your songs is weed and other types of substance abuse. Alcohol, prescription pills- those aren't your cup of tea, but you are very close with a handful of people who do. Your brother is one such person, and you hate seeing the things it does to a person. You could never get into it, especially after all the shit that went down a couple years ago with Mituna Captor, your brothers best friend. You feel really bad for his girlfriend, Latula, and wish that you could have done something to prevent it. You, in reality, had nothing to do with it, but maybe you could have talked Kur out of giving him so damn much... Talked him out of trying it in the first place...

You don't want to think about substance abuse anymore.

So instead you get up off your ass, and wipe the tears from your cheeks, and go to get something to eat.

You have to walk up to the main house for this, even though you swear that you'll get a mini fridge for the sunroom someday, one day.

So you walk into the house- surprisingly small, considering your income. You were never one for flashy, huge as fuck mansions, but your house is bigger than normal. It has an oceanfront view, and you like to go sit on the sand and smoke, sometimes. Other times you drag your partners out there and fuck them, and both of you find sand in uncomfortable places for weeks afterward. It's worth it, and you have plenty of awesome memories out there.

Inside your kitchen is your housemaid, of which you only have two. Roxy is chill, and she doesn't think your habits are disgusting. She thinks you're a sad man who is a pretty awesome boss, because you don't care if she gets drunk with you. You like to think of the two of you as friends, and she seems to as well. At the moment she's making pumpkin pie and pumpkin-alfredo pasta. She has a thing for pumpkins, which you don't really understand, but go with anyways. They are an acquired taste, and in the four years she'd worked for you, you'd all up and acquired that miracle. Hell, you'd even taken to ordering Pumpkin Angel Faygo special from the company website. You were one of their main promoters, other than- ugh- Insane Clown Posse. They had made three flavors inspired by your music: Pumpkin Angel, Dulce de Leche (caramel milkshake), and Miracle Chateaux (originally, it was named "Chateaux Faygeaux", and was a wine-flavored soda in the 1970's. After renewing his contract, they agreed to bring it back under the new name).

You pull yourself up onto the kitchen island and watch her as she stirs the pasta and obscenely orange alfredo, humming one of your songs as it plays in the background. It seems to be an unspoken rule between the two of you that she plays your music when she's working.

After she finishes, she readies three plates. Glancing back at you, she blinks at your messed-up paint. She sighs, and grabs a washcloth, going onto her tip-toes to reach your face and clean it off. You let her, because the third plate must mean that someone is joining you for lunch. You close your eyes, and she eventually leaves you with a freshly-scrubbed face, just sitting there.

Kurloz walks into the room, and you give them a small nod before Roxy hands you a bowl, and you start on the pasta. The room is silent for a while, other than the sounds of slurping noodles and chewing on the chunks of pumpkin. You remember inviting him now, you guess.

"Gamzee?" He asks. You look up at him.

"What, brother?"

"Be careful on that upcoming tour. There are a lot of people back home that aren't happy with you." He is referencing your distant family, and you nod.

"I'm a rapper, not a suicide bomber. I'll walk on my eggshells." You grin, but you can't stop thinking about that word. Suicide.

It's not even really an option for you. It never would be. When you die you're well... Dead. No more faygo, no more people, no more food. No more living.

But at the same time, death is a haven in of itself. Guilt free, all you have to do is let go and accept it.

Too bad for you, you would never allow yourself to accept it. You wouldn't forgive yourself. You have so much to live for- And by that you mean you have someone who you need to live for. They didn't get the chance, so you're the only thing they have left that is even vaguely similar to living on.

On the same hand though, he's already dead.

You decide you want to stop fucking thinking about that.

**Author's Note:**

> tell me what you think?


End file.
